


Plugged In

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bottom Yondu Udonta, M/M, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Switching, Versatile Kraglin Obfonteri, Versatile Yondu Udonta, Vibrators, how many 'anal' tags can I use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: If cap'n wants something, Kraglin fetches it - whether it's a new trinket, a Sovereign battery, or a pretty red butt-plug.





	Plugged In

It’s Yondu’s idea. But Kraglin has to set the ball rolling, because while Yondu’s a shameless a-hole who’ll jerk him off in broad daylight, so long as they're planetside and there ain't no crew about, he can be a stubborn shit when it comes to admitting just how much certain _stuff_ gets him off. Stuff that’d ruin his rep as the biggest, baddest space pirate in all the explored galactic star-systems (second-biggest, if you count Stakar - but Kraglin knows better than to mention that).

Stuff like getting hot under the collar just from glancing at the window of a Xandarian sex-shop.

Xandar's one of them fruity liberal places where brats are taught about the Betans and the Ba-bani early on, alongside their other edumacationings. They're damn touchy about their age of majority though. Kraglin remembers the stink that kicked up last time they swung by a Nova satellite, after Quill had undergone yet another messy break-up. In a rare moment of sympathy (or an effort to get the sixteen-year-old to quit his doleful midnight karaoke-sessions) Kraglin dragged him to a brothel and offered to pay.

He'd nearly been packed off to the Kyln there and then. Luckily, Quill managed to convince the corpsman who accosted them that they were only there to rob the place, which reduced their sentence to a slap on the wrist and an eye-roll.

Maybe the kid ain't completely useless.

But anyway. He's not who Kraglin wants to be thinking about right now. He watches his boss watch the window, taking note of what his gaze lingers on. He already knows Yondu ain't gonna stop. They’re on a job. Undercover, with hoods pulled over implants and leathers substituted for slim-fit tunics (or portly-fit, given the average bodyshape in Yondu's faction: boxer with a touch of beergut). Anyway, they’ve got half the Bridge crew with them. Ain’t like cap'n can just… excuse himself. Not when he’s in command.

But Kraglin can.

He mutters to Yondu that he’s got an errand and that he’ll meet him back at ship. Yondu nods him away without question – something he wouldn’t consider for anyone else. One of the perks of being first mate-come-fuckbuddy. He skulks to the rear of the group, letting Morlug and Isla and co. pass, and sidles into a byway that bisects the main street at a right-angle.

Then he doubles back, cutting through alleys where he can – although Xandar doesn't have many of those. It's all bright sun and high taxes and good infrastructure here. Not a single patch of shadow in skulking distance. Kraglin doesn't like it. But he makes do, and remembers to keep his lead teeth hidden when he smiles at passers by.

He ain’t great with maps, not unless they're written on the scale of constellations. But he knows cities, and Xandar’s capital is designed around a grid for tourists’ convenience. It doesn’t take five minutes for him to locate the vendor, whose display features a plethora of artificial genitalia designed for insertion into a certain bodily orifice, one which is common to a high percentile of species in this quadrant.

 _Shiny_ genitalia. Heck, if he didn't know better, he might assume Yondu wanted one for his dashboard.

The thought makes him snicker. Kraglin eyes up his choices, checks both ways, and saunters in while pretending to be engrossed with the holo-read from his wristpiece. The woman behind the counter looks up at the tinkling bell. Her smile is as crisply ironed as her suit.

“How can I help, sir?”

Kraglin steps closer, a little intimidated by the sheer diversity of silicone molds. Everything’s close, crowded onto high-rise shelves. Space is always tight on Xandar; serves 'em right for sprawling outwards rather than up. But it all looks clean – immaculate, really. Every toy is vacuum-packed and buffed to glistening.

He flicks the tip of a display vibrator, labelled _touch me - but external use only, please_. The clit-piece bobbles like the head on the trinket Quill had nicked for Yondu, to commemorate the first anniversary of his abduction. Soft brat. They’d trained that outta him pretty quick. But although that toy’s never graced Yondu’s dash, Kraglin knows it’s tucked beneath the spare credit-pouch and the patching kit in Yondu’s wall drawer, insulated against cosmic storms and hull breaches, and Yondu himself when the kid's almost gotten himself killed again and the captain needs something to smash that ain't his fool Terran's skull.

Kraglin smiles to himself. He clears his throat. “Uh, about your window display…” The flared plugs and dildos, built for anal use. The woman is completely professional.

“I have the entire range here,” she says, pressing a button to release a glass cabinet from the wall behind her till. Kraglin pretends to survey the selection, although he already knows what he wants. Nothing looks better than red on blue, after all.

“That one,” he says, tapping. The woman nods. She extracts his choice by pushing her gloved hands straight into the box – must be forcefield-hybrid glass, fancy Xandarian tech. She wraps it, and, at Kraglin’s twitchy smile, pops it in a discreet bag.

It fits in his tunic pocket, and the lump weighs heavy as he transfers the credits and walks out: a constant reminder of what's to come. It bounces off his pelvis when his left foot swings forwards. He wonders how it would feel inside him. Wonders how it’d look inside Yondu.

Yondu: stalking the _Eclector’s_ corridors with this stuffed in him. He’d try to be brisk and fierce, but beneath the leathers his thighs will be quivering, and he’ll tighten unconsciously around silicone and the wet slick of Kraglin’s come.

Kraglin's pulse is already skidding, just at the thought.

He wears a giddy smile by the time he returns to the group. Isla gives him a weird look, and Yondu raps his knuckles off his shoulder as he passes – _pull yourself together._ Kraglin does so, coughing into his fist. They’re scoping the house of a foreign dignitary, whose infant son has been gifted with a Sovereign battery for his first birthday as a marker of peace between their kingdoms. Honestly. What’s a baby gonna do with some fancy power-source? Better the Ravagers take it off his pudgy lil' hands. There’s a fence who’ll pay good cash for it, and another who’s promised them the same amount for the sake of humiliating the Sovereign.

Kraglin pats his pocket again, stroking the smooth curve through the layers of polysynth cotton. Then straightens, plasters on his business face, drags up the schematic on his wristpiece, and starts pointing out prime camera-spots.

Yeah, he could laze around daydreaming about fucking Yondu silly, then having him walk around for the rest of their shift like he doesn’t have a glossy red plug rubbing him up in all the right ways. But he’s a Ravager, and he’s got a job to do.

 

* * *

 

He gets his chance a coupla weeks later. Yondu’s the sort of guy who likes to fuck as well as get fucked, although his preference skews to the latter. Between this and the fact that there's more than one way for a pair of bog-standard biological males to get each other off, what mood the captain will be in (on the rare days they pour into bed not too worn out to do more than snore) is about as predictable as a flipped coin.

Kraglin patiently lays through a dicking, three jerk-offs, and a half-decent blowjob. He finally gets his chance, once the golden battery-cylinder is humming in Yondu’s coded energy field. Yondu has that intensity that comes after a job goes right. The notification that the credits have been transferred pops onto their screens halfway through breakfast shift, and Yondu immediately declares a 'strategy meeting'.

Kraglin's heard that excuse so often that his translator chip's gotten wise to it. It feeds Yondu's words into his ear as 'come to my quarters so I can sit on yer dick'. He's only too happy to comply.

The sex is steamy and hungered, dripping into languid as Yondu tugs Kraglin over him. He twists on his side with one leg bent to his chest and the other outstretched, so Kraglin's balls drag across his thigh while he fucks him corkscrewed.

Kraglin knows a kiss ain’t likely to help his cause. He doesn’t try for one, not even when Yondu's toes curl and his abdomen flexes, and he squirms back against Kraglin’s cockbase with a rumbling growl. He sits up straight and holds Yondu steady – although his cap'n is, as always, a mess of tight-jawed orders for more, and kicks to the nearest bodypart if his performance ain't adequate.

Kraglin wears him down eventually though. Yondu clings to him as he comes. Sweat glimmers satin-like on blue skin, and he sinks against the dirty mattress, jizz coating his stomach. Kraglin follows shortly after. He holds in, pumping wet pulses deep into his body – then rubs Yondu’s lips, receiving a lazy nip for his efforts, and extracts himself practically before he’s softened.

“You in a hurry, or somethin’?” Yondu sits. He keeps his legs spread, and Kraglin spies a dribble of white, creaming between his asscheeks. Yondu scratches it, pulling a face. “Ugh – now I gotta shower before I go back on bridge. Wanna come?” Usually, he’d be up for it. Not to have more sex – neither of ‘em spank out a regular two per day anymore. But spending time with Yondu outside of work is always a luxury.

Today though, Kraglin has other plans. He shakes his head, moving to his discarded jacket – but hastens to explain when he catches a flash of disappointment that Yondu covers with a “whatever” and a shrug.

“Nah – just stay put a sec, sir. I got somethin’ for ya.”

Yondu grins. Then, mimicking Quill – “Ooh, a prezzie!  So do I gotta shut my eyes, or…?”

Kraglin snorts. “Shut your eyes if you wanna,” he says – and is thrilled that Yondu does so. “Um. And spread yer legs too.”

Lashes crack, the brows above them raising. “Ain’t that supposed to be ‘open your mouth’?” But while Kraglin fishes for a decent reply, Yondu chuckles and lounges out. He taps the headboard while his toes wriggle for the far-off end of the bed, before grabbing both thighs and opening ‘em for Kraglin’s convenience. The cum on his pouch accentuates the brightness of the blue, and between his legs, the flush round his hole is similarly stained. And, to top it off, he's smiling.

While Kraglin's not popping wood again any time soon, he can't help but lick his lips. Damn, that's a nice visual.

Locating the plug, he unwraps it. The sound of crinkling paper makes Yondu’s head twitch. “Whassat?”

“You’ll see.” He has a feeling that Yondu knows – that he might even be _hoping._ And, well, he sure hopes he’s made the right call. If not, this is gonna get real awkward real fast. Taking a breath, he drizzles more lube over the toy and returns to the bed.

“Alright,” he says, crawling between Yondu’s knees. “Keep them eyes shut, captain.”

The hands holding Yondu's legs apart clench. Cracked nails crimp muscle. Yondu nods, an authoritative jerk that's _permission_ and _orders_ all at once.

That's all Kraglin needs. He jiggles a testing finger round Yondu’s asshole, finding it loose from the fuck and sensitive, judging by the groan. He decides it’s good enough. Wiping the leaked pearly bead on the sheets, and delighting at how wet cap'n felt inside, Kraglin pushes the plug in snug.

The head enters with an audible pop. Yondu _keens._ He shoves his heels down, ass lifting into the air and spent cock twitching as Kraglin eases it the rest of the way, settling the flared base against his skin.

It ain't exactly a beginner's model. Watching that quantity of smooth silicon be swallowed by his captain's body makes Kraglin's limp prick consider perking, even if it doesn't quite manage it. The effects on Yondu are more noteworthy still.

“Fuck – Kraglin, that’s… fuck!”

“Glad you like it sir,” Kraglin murmurs, hiding his pleased smile with a kiss to the inside of Yondu’s trembling knee. “S’red. Thought it’d look nice with yer implant and shit.”

Usually, Yondu’d mock him for giving a damn about anything as frivolous as aesthetics. But when his eyes open they're crinkly around the edges, and Kraglin knows he’s made a good choice.

“How long d’you want me to wear it for?” This is where Kraglin's confidence wavers. He knows he can’t _order_ Yondu to do anything, much less anything he doesn’t want to do, or that he thinks might compromise their work. But it’s shaping up to be a quiet day. What with the battery being in the bag, he figures they deserve a little celebration. If Yondu’s _offering_ the choice to Kraglin, if he _wants_ him to decide…

Kraglin’s airways are much too tight. He coughs, and starts to do what he was born for. Haggle.

“Rest of the day,” he says, not expecting anything other than a snort and a minimum suggestion in return. Yondu treats him to an indolent blink and shrugs.

“Sure."

Kraglin pauses, halfway through shaping his next offer, of the rest of the shift plus dinner. “Uh – you serious?”

Yondu’s frown is severe and entirely fabricated. “Ya want me to take it out sooner?”

“No! No, um, just wasn’t thinkin’ you’d –“ Smirking to himself, Yondu lets his legs fall closed. He rocks his hips, swivelling against the mattress to make the plug shift. There's a jangling ball inside the silicone, and if Kraglin strains he can hear it, the rattle muted by Yondu's body. It'll be drowned out by rustling leather and clicking buckles once Yondu's fully clothed, but for now...

Kraglin's tongue moves thickly through the sudden accumulation of spit in his mouth. He wonders whether keeping the remote vibrate function from Yondu is a mutiny-level offence. “Never mind. Day’s good. Day’s really, _really_ fuckin’ good.”

And it is. For him.

 

* * *

 

 

Yondu may have possibly, potentially, overestimated himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing his forehead on the metal doorframe. If he's searching for relief, it’s wholly ineffectual. The chill of the rust-speckled iron just makes him all the more aware of how hot the rest of the body is in comparison. And because he’d walked to this side of the bridge under the pretence of checking Zqo’s work, for the  _sole purpose_ of having an excuse to lean against the doorway, he now has to walk back again.

With the plug chiming inside him the whole way.

Thing is, it ain’t  _quite_ long enough to rub on his prostate. Sure, he can feel the stretch, and there’s a whole bunch of other nervy bits back there that like the stimulation ( _damn_ do they like it; Yondu’s only walking slow and they’re practically singing, a tight heat lodged at the base of his spine). That little ball rolls, bumping against him from the inside, jiggling with each footfall.

But he knows that if he could sit and bounce, grind in the right way, it might –  _might_ – nudge that spot. It’s infuriating, sexy, and – unfortunately – entirely distracting.

“What d’you think, captain?” Isla asks.

Yondu jumps from where he’s slumped over the doorframe, and turns to find his bridge crew staring at him. He clears his throat.

“Uh –“

Kraglin thankfully, isn't a complete sadist – that or he knows he'll be first on the butchery-list should their fooling-about ever jeopardize Yondu's command. He comes to the rescue.

“Hyperion station’s bit far out – it’ll take the hit-and-run group a week to get there. And if we’re headin’ in the other direction and the group are in M-ships, they’re on half lightspeed-capacity compared to the  _Eclector_. Take ‘em a month to catch us up.”

Getting the gist, Yondu nods to him and takes over. “And Stakar's crews have been musclin' in on our territory recently. We send a band of M-ships, they ain’t likely to come back. But we can't spare no frigates...”

Isla’s watching him oddly. He ignores her. He’s good at this. He can do this sorta thing upside down, hands tied, blindfolded –  _not a good time to be thinking about that._ He can handle some good old-fashioned plotting with a plug-stuffed rectum, easy-peasy.

Just think of it as torture. Batten down the reports from your body, force a grin, and plow on through.

“Whole Ogord army ain’t likely to show up for one lil’ M-ship though. And one lil’ M-ship ain’t likely to bring home the booty alone. Not with a month-plus delay before reaching the galleon, and a whole buncha nasties between them and us.”

“We can’t send a load,” Isla says, rubbing the Monroe piercing on her upper lip. “Only stand to lose more that way, and cue Stakar in that there’s a prize worth takin’.”

“So one ship only,” Kraglin muses. “One ship that can slip by any big blockades without too much ruckus, but which’s got enough firepower to nuke a coupla scavengers.”

Yondu's so busy after that – sending the order to get one of their old heavy-artillery M-ships prepped for business, puzzling out which operatives they can spare – that he almost forgets about his other pressing issue. Then Kraglin, poker-faced, checks a monitor on the far side of the deck and swears.

“Captain – here!”

“I don’t see anything,” says Zqo, leaning over. Kraglin swats her off.

“Go help Morlug with assignations, will ya?”

Zqo glowers at him, but slopes away as commanded. Yondu awkwardly considers his chair, in the room’s center. To that, or to…?

“What’re you waitin’ for?” mutters Isla, by his elbow. He almost jumps, but stops himself just in time. The involuntary jerk is still enough to make the ball rattle. He bites his lip to catch the moan.

And Isla, shit-eating bitch that she is, looks very pointedly down at his crotch, and up again.

Ah. That.

Yondu quickly fastens his coat. Isla’s smirk grows. “Bonuses of bein’ short,” she says, elbowing his thigh. “Get a move on then, sir.”

Walking is… interesting. Kraglin’s species makes a gallon of cum to Yondu's half-pint. It seeps around the plug’s smooth body, as his steps make the marble bounce and thrum. Yondu half-kids himself he can smell jizz, before reassuring himself that that’s only because he’s looking to isolate the scent from the usual fug of old dinner trays, sweat, leather, and booze that billows about the  _Eclector's_ bridge.

The plug’s narrow neck is pinched by his ass. The amount of cum that’s dribbled out makes it harder to grip than it should be. Not enough for it to slide out, but  _just_ to make him very aware of its presence.

And fuck. He’s full. He feels so full, and it feels so  _good,_ and that ball is going to shake him apart, and...

And he’s made it to Kraglin’s chair without going weak at the knees. Thank the stars.

Yondu passes a hand over his eyes. He leans on the chairback so he can pretend to be reading over Kraglin’s shoulder while he snarls in his ear: “Fuck you, Kraggles. You was plannin’ this all along.”

“Having fun, captain?” asks Kraglin cheerfully, too quiet for anyone else to hear. Yondu feels Isla’s eyes on his back and shivers. Then shivers  _again_ when that makes the plug jangle, cock thudding off the inside of his zipper. Kraglin looks over his shoulder, catching the tremble in his lips and the faint sheen of perspiration under his chin. “Hey – per’aps you oughta sit, sir. You’ve got six hours to go.”

That sounds like a good idea. Yondu claps Kraglin’s shoulder like he’s just finished congratulating him about something, and heads – gingerly – for his seat.

And almost jerks right back up again.

As soon as his ass touches chair, electricity pulses into his guts. Yondu squeaks, judders, and cums in his pants.

Thankfully, the noise is drowned out by a loud blare of feedback from the nav array. Kraglin pushes the switch he’d ‘accidentally’ flicked back into place, and directs a sheepish grin to the rest of their crew.

“Whoops,” he says. “Sorry.” It's not an everyday slip – especially not from Kraglin, who's been coaxing the  _Eclector's_ cranky old circuit boards into compliance since before Yondu made captain. But even the senior Ravagers make no claims at being infallible (not unless they're  _really_ drunk). Everyone scoffs and goes back to work. Once assured no one is paying them undue attention, Kraglin’s pupils snap to Yondu. They find him flushed and panting, bowed over in his seat – and swell to full black circles.

“Hey sir? Can ya come here again?”

“Why don’t you c’mere instead?” Yondu snaps. He forces himself to sound grouchy rather than breathless. It ain’t hard. He’s pissed off – one, because Kraglin hadn’t decided to inform him that he could  _shock him at will,_ and two, because the last time he jizzed his pants Stakar was still assigning him scrub duties every other week for bad behavior.

But he forgets that, as Kraglin fiddles with  _something_ in his pocket and – rather than shocking him again – the rattly ball begins to vibrate. And fuck, sitting on it, the plug  _does_ reach his prostate.

Yondu sinks into his chair, doing his best to make it appear casual. From the saucy grin on Kraglin’s face as he saunters over, he ain’t doing a good job.

The inside of his pants is creamed, cum softening the leather but not soaking through. He can feel Kraglin’s jizz, churned by the vibrator, whose buzz wobbles through him like it's searching for the frequency that will induce liquefaction.

“Yer doin' real good, sir,” Kraglin murmurs. He brings up a hologram on his wrist and pretends to point at an old set of schematics. Yondu clutches his armrests, gripping the supple material until the imprints of his nails resemble clawmarks, and grinds his jaw to stop the moans.

“Can’t decide if I hate you,” he gasps, “or that other thing.”

That other thing which they don’t talk about. It’s become an in-joke by now. Smirking, Kraglin rests his hand on Yondu's shoulder. He angles his captain's body a little more onto the vibe, the vibe a little more onto his prostate.

Ah,  _fuck._ No way is he gonna be able to get hard again. After this he ain’t getting it up for a fucking week. But still...

Yondu’s eyes flutter shut. He has to bite back the growl. After cumming, he's so sensitive that the relentless throb through his lower body causes more pain than pleasure – but those have always been muddled, where he's concerned.

Everything about this is overwhelming. The sensations: he’s so wet, so full; stuffed to the brim with cum and silicone, and still wanting more. But also the knowledge that he's in full view of his men, and that if anyone looks too closely at his reflection in the  _Eclector's_ wide curved windscreen, they'll notice how his face has surpassed royal blue and is rapidly approaching navy.

All in all, Yondu's having fun. But this is gonna get itchy if he sits in it long enough to dry. And, as Kraglin reminded him, he still has hours left on the clock – ain't no way he's getting through it without some relief, even if it's just sponging off and putting on fresh pants.

“Think I need a bathroom break,” he says. “Clean up a bit.” Kraglin eyes up his fly and licks his lips.

“Want company?”

It's tempting to say  _only if you let me off early._  But Yondu hates to admit defeat; he hates it. Grumbling, he noogies blue knuckles off Kraglin's temple. “You cheated. Didn’t say nothing about shocks.”

“Didn’t say nothing about no shocks neither,” Kraglin teases. But he relents at Yondu’s glare. “Alright, sir. Just gimme a sec.”

He starts towards Morlug, assigning her to his place with a flutter of long fingers. Yondu shuts his eyes and swallows. Then steels himself, wrapping his coat a bit tighter – damn, it’s warm in here – and rises to find Isla.

“Can ya watch the bridge?” he asks, casual-like and all. Her smirk almost splits her face in half. “And get that dumb look off yer mug. Unprofessional.”

“I’ll say, sir,” says Isla, winking. But she waves him off and – after giving it a snappy once-over and deeming it hygienic (thank God for leather pants) – parks herself across his chair in a dainty side-saddle.

 

* * *

 

 

Kraglin hustles him to the nearest bogs. He has him up against the wall before the lock’s clicked on.

Yondu makes sure it does so. Then, and only then, does he allow Kraglin to drop to his knees and start working on his boots and pants. They slide down slowly, messy with congealing cum. Kraglin runs his tongue across their insides - ew - before moving on to lave his soft cock, making the sensitive flesh prickle. He licks clean stripes over his balls, then hikes Yondu’s bare leg up onto his shoulder. Yondu has to grab the cistern to stop himself falling.

Smirking, Kraglin grinds the plug in place, tapping his fingers on its base to make fireworks burst in Yondu’s pelvis. A press of something in his coat pocket has that jolt buzzing through him again, lightning crackling along every nerve. Yondu hears himself whine. It sounds like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. Kraglin makes a soft sound of approval, feeling the buzz from where their skin meets. He kisses the tender juncture between Yondu’s thigh and groin.

It’s open-mouthed and spitty, Kraglin’s tongue darting out to catch the trails of splattered cum. When he drags his teeth over the dark crease of skin he has to pin Yondu’s hips to stop him bucking and breaking his nose.

“You like this, yeah?” he pants. Waits for confirmation – which Yondu grants with a downwards press, rubbing the plug against Kraglin’s hand. Kraglin's delight is tangible. Flattening his palm under him he  _rolls_ it, grinding him open from the inside while he nuzzles Yondu’s limp dick, kissing sticky adhesion from the tip.

Yondu gathers greasy hair in his hands. He's shaking, so hard that he's convinced he's coming apart – like an old M-ship breaching atmosphere for the last time, when lugs and nuts judder from walls and plating peels away in gouts of blazing steel.

Gripping the plug's coin-like base, Kraglin begins to move it in slow thrusts. It might have stopped vibrating, but there's still that loose-rolling ball to contend with. The plunge of it into his body is infuriatingly shallow and agonizingly good.

Kraglin pulls on it to the point where Yondu's hole distends around the bulge. A single contraction would disgorge it into Kraglin's hand, warm from his body and sticky with lube. Before Yondu can contemplate that route, Kraglin  _pushes._

There's a flex and a pop. Yondu's supporting leg wobbles like the femur's been replaced with blasting jelly – albeit with significantly less chance of explosion.

The cistern digs into his spine. As he struggles to stay upright, hand scraping desperately over the cubicle walls, he manages to elbow the vacuum flush-button. There's a noisy slurp. The contents of the bowl beneath him – clean or otherwise; he didn't exactly have time to lift the lid for an inspection, and it would kinda have ruined the mood – siphons through the  _Eclector's_ sewage pipes and into the matter converters. Yondu doesn't hear it. He doesn't hear anything but the wet laps as Kraglin cleans him, the squish of the plug in his ass, the continuous drumroll of his heart.

He's a mess by the time Kraglin’s had his fun. Not just because of how much saliva is smeared around his crotch - he's lost in a haze, senses narrowed to the stretch of the plug and the tender slide of Kraglin’s tongue. The strands of his first mate's mohawk garotte his fingers, wound so tightly around them that Yondu loses blood supply.

Kraglin's gentle when he tugs out the plug. Uncharacteristically so, with fingers propped on his perineum, stretching and massaging the taut skin to help it relax. But Yondu still scrunches his nose as a string drizzles from him, scalding hot after so long inside.

Kraglin’s there before he can gripe though. His nose nuzzles under his balls as he laps his clutching, quivering hole. The plug’s deposited on the floor by his knee – and considering the amount of germs it's currently sharing that floor with, it's gonna need several sterilizing radiation baths before they try this again.

It’s very red, Yondu notices. Of a shade with his implant and his eyes. He thinks about what Kraglin’d said about it looking good, and smiles when he pictures himself.

He knows he’s an ugly old bastard, scarred and spat out by the universe, and what sex appeal he has is of the rough and rugged variety. But damn, if Kraglin can’t make him feel  _special,_ colorful and important, and… yeah, fucking sexy too.

He hisses when a serrated fang scrapes. Then Kraglin’s tongue pushes in, hot and wet and as slick as the skin around it, questing out every last salty taste of himself.

Yondu tries not to grind too much on his face – doesn’t wanna smother the lad or nothing, not after he’s done such a good job at entertaining him. He steadies himself on the wall, head clonking back, and focuses on maintaining a borderline-steady breathing rate as Kraglin French-kisses his jizz-stuffed ass.

Not for the first time, Yondu considers backing out of his rule against kissing. Kraglin’s tongue – fucking  _hell,_ Kraglin’s tongue. He narrows it to a point, licking hard and fast, then softens it to dab the outside, spit squelching on lube. He pushes hungry fingers inside him, stirring what his tongue can’t reach, and once Yondu’s clutching helplessly around him, balls contracting as they try to push out what's no longer there, he moves to suck hickeys and gnaw bite-marks into his inner thighs.

“Really ain’t gonna be able to walk if ya keep that up,” Yondu warns him, breathless. His bare heel rubs circles on the back of Kraglin’s jacket. The leather’s cool against his skin, and he crooks his leg in spite of his words, relishing the dry slide of it, keeping Kraglin close. Kraglin hums and chews dangerously close to his femoral artery.

Hands still buried in his scrappy Mohawk, Yondu unsticks his chin from his chest and rolls his head to one side, eyes shut, letting Kraglin mark him up as much as he wants. Ain’t like no one’s gonna see it down there.

Kraglin finishes with a wet, suckling navy bruise, so high on his inseam it’s gonna grate every time he takes a step. Huffing a laugh, Yondu pulls him up – and, after a moment of tense indecision, kisses him.

He regrets it.

“Blegh! That’s fuckin’ gross.”

Kraglin quirks up a corner of his mouth. “Ain’t so bad. C’mon, galley serves us mankier crud twice a week.”

It’s a fair point. Yondu licks his lips and tries again, bypassing the taste. Kraglin guides him, cupping his jaw and tilting his head to where he wants it, so he can fuck his sour-tinged tongue between his lips without noses getting in the way.

Their teeth still clack and neither of them have especially nice breath – Kraglin's especially is a wonderful bouquet of stale cum and halitosis - but then again, neither of them care. Yondu’s calf is hooked over Kraglin’s bony hip, and when Kraglin slides his hand down he can still slot his sticky fingers inside him, still fill him and tease him just the way he likes.

“Good job,” gasps Yondu eventually, when Kraglin breaks away. “On this. Y’know.” Their mouths are shiny with spit. Kraglin twists his head, breaking the beaded thread that’s linking them together, and bites down on the stud in Yondu’s ear.

“Yer welcome, sir.” It sounds so ridiculous when he ain’t opening his mouth that Yondu sniggers, and almost ends up missing an earlobe. Wincing, he extracts himself to look Kraglin in the eye.

“What next? I still got hours on the clock, but you ain't putting that thing back in me without giving it a good scrub.”

Setting his leg down - gotta be kind to his hip joints; he ain't as young as he used to be - Yondu toes the plug. It rolls stickily over the tiles, rattling louder than ever. He's hoping Kraglin'll concede the point and let Yondu get back to his work – which is why his first mate's smirk is concerning.

“Good thing I went back to that store after we pulled off the heist,” he says. And, fishing in his pocket, he draws out another plug – this black, with a red jewel inset at the base.

That had better be made of glass. Yondu'd punch Kraglin if the idiot ever spent proper money on him. But it twinkles prettily, and Yondu wonders if his implant shines like that when the starlight catches it.

Truth be told though, his attention's not on the gem. Because, to his consternation, this plug's only half the size of its predecessor.

“Uh. Krags.”

Kraglin's smile is entirely too innocent. “Yes boss?” The plug vanishes, Yondu's vision obstructed by his own body even when he cranes down to see. All he sees is his underjacket, curving over his stomach, and Kraglin's jumpsuit, and his soft cock, and the bony, hairy wrist that pokes from between his legs.

He can feel it though. The insistent little nudge trails teasingly along his crack, pausing to swivel around the throbbing stretch of his hole.

It's a very,  _very_ little nudge.

He flinches when it pierces him. It slots in far too easily, tired muscles having lost the will to clamp. But damn, if he doesn't feel it – every nerve ending sizzles, complaining from the prolonged torment. When the base of the plug grazes his rim, Kraglin keeps his hand cupped under it, holding it in place while Yondu squirms. “Thas gonna fall out, Krags. I can't -”

“S'okay sir.” Kraglin leans closer; a gangly scarecrow, silhouetted against the lights. His grin is sharp and yellow, barely shy of menacing. “Turn around, bend over, and spread 'em. Then I can smack you til you're bruised tight again.”

By the skeletal tits of Thanatos herself.

What did Yondu do to deserve a mate like Kraglin? Kraglin notices the hitch in his breath. He peeks at him from under his lashes, nervousness broadcast over his fuzzy face. He thinks he's pushed too far. He thinks Yondu's gonna snap and claw his way to freedom, or worse – whistle.

He thinks wrong.

Yondu grabs his ears, crushing their mouths hungrily together. He tries to lead the kiss, but his lack of practice shows – he winds up sucking on Kraglin's tongue as it darts around his mouth, incisors digging until he tastes blood. Kraglin twitches the plug in little jolts. There's no electrical shock function on this one, but each shift sears through Yondu just the same. When he finally rears back, Yondu's entire bodyweight rests on the cistern, spine arched uncomfortably around its blockish shape.

He's gotta turn around. It'll spare him a protesting back in the morning, and the crew'll be grateful when he doesn't wake up pissed and aching bad enough to put his arrow through the head of everyone who squints at him sideways. Yep, twisting to kneel shakily on the seat, grabbing his asscheeks and opening himself up for Kraglin to deliver his hard, stinging swats direct to his hole... That's all for the greater good.

At least, that's his excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you so much for every kudos/comment!**

**Author's Note:**

> **Y'all know how much I love comments!**


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